


Breathe

by ComaBlack



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Ableist Language, Abuse, Blood and Violence, Crucifixion, Drowning, Established Relationship, F/M, Hanging, Horror, Implied Sexual Content, Injury, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Self-Harm, Suggestive Themes, Swearing, Underage Drinking, Underage Smoking, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:55:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24877291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComaBlack/pseuds/ComaBlack
Summary: It burns.He can’t breathe.Arthur tries to get up. He tries to push himself up from the bed, but for some reason unbeknownst to him, there is a heavy boulder on his chest. He looks around pleading for someone to help him, and that’s when he sees her.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia), Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 32
Kudos: 62





	1. Chapter 1

It burns.

He can’t breathe.

Arthur tries to get up. He tries to push himself up from the bed, but for some reason unbeknownst to him, there is a heavy boulder on his chest. He looks around pleading for someone to help him, and that’s when he sees her.

She’s crouching at the corner closest to his bed, blood trickling from her mouth down to her chest. He can see the cervical bones through her throat as her neck twists. She starts to crawl towards him before he registers the full sight of her.

“What the fuck, Art? Wake up. Mum wants you down in ten. Get to it.”

He awakes to a bright room with his brother shouting in the doorway.

“Alright you prick! I’m up,” He manages with a lump in his chest.

* * *

He can’t sleep. Better yet, he’s too scared to fall asleep. So, he chooses not to as nothing has ever caused him greater discomfort. He can make use of the extra time. There is so much to get done. It’s the right choice.

He doesn’t remember when the nightmares started. He’s had them for as long as he can remember. They're getting worse; more than what he can handle. It’s all so unfair. How come he’s never allowed to shut his brain off? If it’s not during sleep, then when? When the hell can he rest?

It starts subtly, he sees insects crawling. They always disappear once he takes note of them. Then, he sees an old lady in a white gown with frozen expressions passing the end of his bed. It was only glimpses at the beginning. Only lasting for a few seconds.

* * *

It’s not her fault.

She is trying.

Everyone can see that she’s trying, can’t they? Why is her family so difficult? Why can’t they ever get along? It’s exhausting. She is so exhausted; she can’t see past it. Elizabeth wanted to make a family of her own more than anything else. She dropped out of university as soon as she found out she was pregnant with her first child, Patrick. Her husband caved and asked her hand in marriage once she became pregnant with her second, Allister, two years later. It didn’t take her long to add Dylan then Arthur to her family. She has always wanted a big family, ever since she was a child herself. She is not sure if that’s what she wants anymore. 

She looks at them across the dinner table. They’re arguing. She can’t tell what they’re arguing about this time. Her youngest two are quiet. She tries to engage them in conversation; asking about school. All she is faced with is grunts and one-word answers. She resigns herself and tunes in to her husband speaking about the lack of gratitude and self-awareness in their kids' generation.

* * *

Arthur comes home with a neck tattoo. His father thrusts him to the ground. She tries to get between them; she tries to stop him. He pushes her on the couch and orders her to not intervene. It lasts for what seems like hours, the sound of the belt ripping into her son’s skin. She closes her bedroom door, lays down on her bed and weeps.

* * *

“What the hell were you thinking?” Dylan whisper-screams at him once he enters their room.

He looks at him blankly for an extra two seconds as a response and then moves to lay down on his bed. His back screams at him as he tries to make himself comfortable. The pain is fine. It’s not so bad. At least this time he deserves it, he had made sure of it. His bastard father didn’t get to find a bullshit excuse to fuck him over this time. Arthur is the one in control now and it fills him with content. He feels strangely calm; not angry at all. It’s really rare for him to not feel angry of late. 

“You’re bleeding through your shirt.”

Arthur opens his eyes to see his brother looking at him from the top bunk with a soft expression. It hurts him. He covers his face. Stupid Dylan does not get to act concerned now. Please stop pretending to care. Arthur knows he doesn’t. He knows that his brother hates him. Dylan told his dad about him smoking just last month. Arthur couldn’t lay down properly for two weeks after. He hates him. He wants him to suffer. It’s not just Dylan, all of them do. Arthur’s willing to bet half his liver that his brothers weren’t just happy that he got beat up, they wanted to join his father in doing so.

His arms are removed firmly from his face.

“We need to cover the wounds, or they’ll get infected.” Dylan guides him to the bath and helps him take off his clothes. Once the water hits his back, he bites his forearm to not make a sound.

“I know it hurts, Arthur. You’ll get ill if I don’t sterilize them. Just think about mum. You don’t want to upset her, do you? Let us hope that you won’t be needing any stiches.”

Arthur looks as water around him turns red. Treacherous tears escape his eyes. He bows his head and hugs his legs. His back burns. His right arm surges with pain from where he bit earlier. He’s so tired. However, what breaks him is his brother. With each word he utters to him as he tries to batch up his tattered body.

* * *

He’s neck-deep in water.

It’s cold and dark.

He screams at himself to remain calm. He thinks he succeeds until a hand clutches at his left ankle with a bone-crushing grip. He feels his bones creak and his breath escape his lungs as he is pulled under water.

He can’t breathe.

His heart pounds so fast he fears it would stop. He thrashes to get to the surface. Arthur sinks to the cold bottom and all he sees is water mixing with blood. His eyes burn. He can’t breathe.

He pleads for someone to help him. He cries for Patrick to come save him like he used to when Arthur was a child. He looked out for him. He saved him from drowning six times already. Just when Arthur gave up on himself, his eldest brother always pulled him out to fresh air.

He feels someone grasp his wrist. He is being pulled to the surface. He knew his brother would come through. Just a few more seconds and he’ll get to breathe again.

Once his head finally breaks out of the water, he is faced with her open flesh that drips blood on his face; inside his eyes. He tastes the blood as it makes its way to his esophagus. He can’t close his eyes. He can’t look away.

He forgets to breathe.

* * *

He’s gasping for air.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you. You were crying while sleeping so I thought to wake you up. That’s really weird if I’m being honest. Are you um…ok?”

It’s Dylan. He’s in their room. It’s morning. He can breathe.

“Why are you breathing weird? Do you want me to call mum? Are you going to cry again?” Trust Dylan to piss him off at this state.

“Piss off, wanker!” He pushes him off his bed and rushes to the bathroom to change.

His father has the morning shift. He leaves before they wake up. Arthur is relieved. Breakfast is awkward. His brothers are unusually quiet and his mum keeps staring at him with her eyes brimmed with tears. What the fuck does she want from him? He already got punished? Can’t they just move on with their lives?

“I think it’s disgusting, Arthur. You’re such an idiot- it’s pathetic. Where will you go.…”

“Shut the fuck up, Allister. Whatever you fucking think is useless. Stay out of this.” Patrick slams his fist on the table as he shouts over their breakfast.

“Boys, please. Manners.” Her voice shakes. “I understand your concern, my darlings, but this problem is for your father and I to handle.”

He is a problem.

His mind is so loud. He can’t focus.

He is pulled from his hair into a standing position. He is face to face with Patrick.

“I thought you were smarter than this. You need to start using your brain, moron. For our sake, if not for yours. Did that arsehole make you do it?” He shakes him, sending excruciating waves of pain through his head.

Arthur can feel his mum trying to pry Patrick’s hand from his skull. She’s crying. Allister slams the door as he leaves. Dylan drinks his tea quietly.

He would rather face Patrick than her.

* * *

He flinches as Francis runs his hand down his back. The bastard pulls away from him.

“Why did you stop?” He whines.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” He speaks softly, looking at Arthur so intently.

“Not now.” He lunges himself forward, capturing Francis by the lips. He runs his hand through his boyfriend’s thoroughly kempt hair, deepening the kiss. The only problem is that his boyfriend is not kissing him back.

He pulls away like he got scalded. “Francis, what the fuck? If you don’t want to fucking be with me, just go ahead and fucking say it, you bloody coward. Stop wasting my fucking time. Stop persuading me to fucking skip school right before the bloody finals if you’re going to act like such a bitch.”

He’s so upset his heart hurts. Why is he rejecting him? The humiliation closes up on him. Will he leave him? He should’ve broken this up a long time ago. It’s better to leave then be left.

“Breathe my love,” Francis embraces him from the side and links their hands. “I’m just concerned is all. Talk to me like I’m here, mon chéri? We can do whatever you want. We have all afternoon.” He pecks him on the cheek then looks at him. Looks at his face. His eyes are so, so blue. So peaceful, so warm.

Arthur takes off his scarf revealing his neck. He can see the shock in Francis’ eyes as he starts to trace his fingers over his name on his lovers’ neck. “I got this for you. Father was not too pleased. Do you like it?” he looks at him as a smirk makes its way towards his lips.

He likes it. Arthur knew he would. Francis gets on top of him and looks at him like he is the only thing in this universe. Francis, his everything. Their lips connect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> let me know if you're enjoying this


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments, lovelies. Hope you like this chapter.

He’s being crucified.

He gasps from the pain. He can’t handle it, the pain signals cursing through his body are too sharp. His hands, his ankles are gushing blood and he feels the metal inside his flesh. He feels it piercing him from one side to the other.

There’s so much pain, it makes him delirious.

He just wants the pain to stop.

He can’t see past the neural waves taking control of every sensation.

It doesn’t stop.

It lasts for so long that his body adapts to the pain. He tries to remain still in hopes of not exacerbating the wounds. He just remains in place, looking across the most beautiful field of roses that glimmer under the moonlight, waiting for god to take his soul.

He doesn’t think of his brothers anymore, no one will help him.

He’s alone.

Something is approaching.

It’s her.

She’s walking slowly towards him. All he can do is watch her as she approaches him. His tears blur his vision. His mind is screaming so loud he can’t hear his own thoughts. He closes his eyes wishing for everything to go away, wishing he would die before she reaches him.

He feels rough hands close around his throat. Fingernails digging into his neck, causing him to bleed.

He’s choking. She’s choking him.

He can’t breathe.

He can’t breathe.

Arthur awakes to a dark, cold room in sweats. He hears his brother softly snoring from the top bunk. He looks at the clock, it’s 3:45. He slept for about thirty minutes, this should do for the day.

He sees a silhouette of a women right in front of their bedroom window. He jumps out of the bed, slamming his head on one of the rods connecting the two bunks together, he falls into the floor and quickly tries to drag himself to a standing position to get out of that room.

Guess he’s going for a run.

He thinks of nothing while he’s running, or at least, he tries to think of nothing. You see, Arthur can never fully shut off his brain. He’s always thinking, and this bitch of a women is making him work double shifts. He needs to talk to someone. Maybe Dylan could help him make sense of what’s happening inside his head that’s driving him up the wall. He just needs to mention her to his brother- he must try to mention it offhandedly in conversation. 

He ran for three hours, non-stop. It helped put his mind at ease.

At breakfast, he sees her make her way down the stairs and stand right in the middle of the dining area. His family kept moving around her as she stares right at him, blood trickling from her body making the dirty beige carpet under her feet crimson.

He can’t hear, all the voices blend into nothing.

He is so alone.

* * *

‘Thank you for your application.’

‘I am sorry to inform you that you have not been shortlisted.’

‘Your application will not be processed further’

‘Thank you for your interest.’

The words ring in her head as she pours herself another shot of whisky. Twenty-six job applications thus far, and she got rejected from them all. She feels defeated; she wants to give up. She wants to help, wants to make things better for her family, her babies. She just cannot for the life of her process a route to financial stability. If only she can find a job. If only she was more qualified. Maybe then, their lives would be easier. Her husband would be more patient, and she would be able to give her love to all of her boys openly. Something needs to get done for her to have chance at happiness again, to love and be loved. Every time she tries to open up her heart now, she feels like she’s being sucked into a blackhole and nothing ever comes out. She is so scared of what’s to come. 

She looks around the kitchen; the cracked walls, the stained sink, the dark windows and the dim lights. They have been living here for two years now. Two years. She never wanted to move to America- deep down she know it would break them. She knew. Her husband is not the compromising type though. He moved seeking a successful business.

How foolish.

Now they’re left with nothing, nothing but debts. Still, he does not admit failure. He still speaks of reopening the damned construction company. It infuriates her. However, the more he speaks of it, the more he seems detached and unconvinced himself. Her frustration transforms into panic imbedded with an overwhelming weight of fear and anxiety over time.

She pressured herself to be a supportive wife from the moment Thomas and her signed the contract. She stayed up at night and listened to him as he promised success and prosperity in the future. She held his hand when he was excited and fired up with motivation. She covered the bruises he decorated her face with in the instances she opposed him, and so she didn’t anymore. She made herself to be the submissive, easy wife. There are sacrifices that must be made to maintain a household after all, and it is the responsibility of the women to keep the peace.

Elizabeth watched as her children got dragged into a new continent. She saw how uncomfortable and upset they grew each passing day. Her husband has forced Patrick and Allister to join the police force along with him to help make ends meet. Only her eldest got accepted; hence, Allister ended up doing the odd jobs here and there.

She wanted more for them.

Whenever Elizabeth drifts in thoughts of the ‘could-of-been’s and the future, she feels her mouth go dry with the thought of her youngest. Arthur, her sweet baby boy. The thought of him clutters her brain. She feels him slipping away with each passing day, and she doesn’t understand why he’s acting up. Ever since their big move, he has been increasingly difficult to deal with.

He was such a quiet, lovely boy. She is so shocked by the transformation that she cannot fully process it. What is happening inside his head? What would she give to understand? She didn’t even see it coming.

It started with one piercing. She thought it would be the end of it, as she got a bellybutton piercing when she was fourteen herself. She didn’t really have a problem with him piercing his ear. She even protected him from his father that day. She thought she was being an open-minded parent. She was wrong. She knows that now.

Arthur comes back with a new surprise almost every week. His ears and face are filled with metal at this point, which is nothing short of tasteless. He even went as far as to poke his tongue with one of those foul rods. That bloody tattoo on her son’s neck drives her to madness, it makes her body yearn for strong liquor. Her beautiful, innocent son is self-destructing.

Arthur is a ticking-bomb, he ticks away quietly until he just explodes. So suddenly, so abruptly. It’s frightening to see him turn from a well-spoken, relatively calm boy straight into a screaming, hysterical mess. Just this morning, Allister was persisting that her youngest must cover the mess he made of his neck. While Allister doesn’t have the calmest of tones nor the most encouraging choice of words to approach the matter, Arthur just erupted in a fit of screams and utter violence. She couldn’t trust what her senses were relaying to her at that moment. He screamed until his face turned red and his voice started to break. She could see the veins in his neck bulge with pressure under the godforsaken mutilation he got done. Patrick had to pin him to the floor, restricting his movement until he calmed. And once he did, he looked so empty, so detached. He just allowed Patrick to help him up from the floor and tie the British-flag scarf -she had knitted it for him a while back- around his neck.

“He’s alright! Don’t you worry about him, mum. Being a bit of a drama queen, don’t you think?” Patrick said with a strained smile to no one in particular. He refused to meet her eyes. “I’ll take them both to school in a moment.” 

Arthur is distant. His eyes keep glazing over. He stares into nothingness for far too long. He’s becoming increasingly fidgety. He falls asleep on the living room floor frequently of late. She thinks he might of have developed ADHD once she has read through some articles online in an attempt to make sense of what her son is presenting with. Thomas refused to even discuss the possibility.

“Kirklands are not fucking retarded, woman. They’re egotistical self-righteous bastards, is all they are. All what he needs is for me to raise him right, to help him see who’s in power. Been too soft on him, ayy? I’ll fix him up for you. Don’t you worry your pretty little head.”

She made it worse. She’s so scared her husband would kill her precious baby at this rate. He’s only sixteen, he hasn’t seen much of the world. How could things go so wrong so fast?

She cannot think about Arthur with a clear head.

She rushes to the bathroom as she gets sick.

* * *

Dylan is pissed.

He’s over Arthur’s rubbish.

‘What on earth has got into him?’ He had this thought so many times that it stopped translating into any actual meaning in his head. Arthur has gone mental and he doesn’t even know it.

He can’t deal with any of them anymore. He doesn’t want to.

Dylan had recently turned eighteen in March. He wants to be independent so achingly bad. He can’t, though. The economy is in fucking shambles and he can’t for the life of him think of a way to actually move out. He can’t even salvage his grades in this shitty high school- how the fuck would he make a decent living?

What a joke.

Move out to where? All he wants is to move back to England where things made sense, where he understood people and actually had friends. It wasn’t perfect, but it was sure as hell better than this hellhole. He at least had a shot at independence there. His part time job at Primark was not the best, but he enjoyed it. It was slow paced and there was Ava, his ex-coworker with the most charming red hair. He wanted to ask her out.

That’s gone now.

His chance at independence is shattered here. He cannot for the life of him come up with a plan to rid himself of his family.

He’s fucking stranded, and there’s no way out.

“Dylan,” Arthur touches his shoulder. “Can I speak with you for a minute before first period?” He stops him before they get inside the school building. He sounds like he has a sore throat. Serves him right for acting like an absolute bitch. 

He looks like absolute shit. The dark circles under his eyes are so deep, it certainly does not compliment the redness surrounding his irises.

“What, Arthur?” He snaps. Honestly, Dylan cannot find it in himself to say anything to his brother, especially right after the ear-ringing scene he just played out this morning.

Arthur keeps shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He eyes dart around frantically until he chooses a spot under his brother’s collar to focus on. He opens and closes his mouth several times before actually speaking. “I….um, saw a lady standing in our living room …. She was wearing white…”

“Where the hell is this going? I need to get to class, I have a test first period,” he cuts him off. “Maybe if you weren’t acting like such a twat earlier, we would have had time to discuss your fantasy lady. I need to fucking go.”

He makes his way to class, leaving his brother behind.

He hurt him.

He thinks of Arthur’s croaky voice instead of trigonometry. He thinks of the wounded face Arthur made before he stormed off from him instead of filling out the fucking exam paper. He can’t make sense of the numbers. Fuck you, Arthur, why do you have to make everything about you?

There’s something wrong with his brother. He can see it. He’s not blind. God, it’s so obvious. What the hell is wrong with their parents?

It disgusts him how his mum moves around the house like a wounded puppy whenever any conflict occurs. And Jesus, his dad is worse, he’s fucking useless. It’s either he talks their bloody ears off with abstract lectures or he just straight up beats the living shit out of Arthur. It’s only Arthur he beats up now. He’s glad he himself is out of the line of fire, but he does want his younger brother to escape it too.

Fuck, just get him some goddamned sleeping pills and he’ll be ok. Why can’t they see it? It’s sleep. That’s his problem. Simple problem. Simple solution. He just cannot fathom how pathetic someone must be that the most basic bloody function of life is a fucking riddle for them. He always thought of Arthur as smart, but damn, can he be so blatantly thick sometimes.

He can’t help him.

Arthur is not even helping himself. He’s aggravating everything. It’s like he wants to be miserable. 

He saw the cuts.

He saw the cuts when he helped him take a shower the other night. His upper thighs, near his crotch. Around the hip. Fresh wounds.

Arthur cuts.

Dylan clenches his eyes shut trying to get rid of the memory.

His brother is not his responsibility.

He does not owe him anything.

He’ll be fucking damned if he fails this test because of something that is none of his goddamned business. He shakes away any lingering thoughts of guilt and bitterness, shifting his focus on the present problem on the test sheet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any guesses on where this is going? :)


	3. Chapter 3

Francis is easily bored.

His family have moved a total of six times throughout his seventeen years of life. He never really minded; in fact, he actually preferred it. His parents’ work nature consistently provides him with ‘new start’s; new house, new school, new community – an excuse to breakoff expired relationships. You see, people are often times repetitive; hence, he is not really to be blamed for losing interest.

With every move, Francis’s lust for life ignites. He is used to meeting people, and making them love him. The challenge makes him euphoric. Their most recent move to the states over a year ago is by far the most exciting. He finally reunites with Antonio and Gilbert-his only friends not deemed disposable- as both of their parents are share-holders in L'arôme (his parents’ expanding business), and quite frankly, he grew very fond of them over the years. Francis enjoys their company like no other, and he does find it most refreshing to have a new start with a few familiar faces. However, what most sparked his interest since moving is no one other than Arthur. 

Arthur is like no other.

Francis was not prepared. Nothing has ever consumed him so brutally, so mercilessly. He wanted him, and so he got him. Francis is used to getting what he wants, and this was of no difference. Arthur was the most difficult to fall for him thus far- he has to give him that, but, in the end, he gave himself away like others before him. 

They have been dating for almost a year now, and he still did not get the urge to cheat, which is a first. Francis, if anything, is self-aware. He knows that the repercussions will not be the same once he’s older, and so he makes use of his youth. He lives life how he wants to. With no regrets. He doesn’t believe in forcing himself to do the right thing as there will be plenty of time to do so as an adult. With that being said, Francis has never lasted in a relationship for more than two months. He doesn’t understand how Arthur has chained him for this long. He doesn’t understand how with every meeting with Arthur, he is pulled in rather than pulled back. His heart, his desire and his lust are fuelled stronger with time rather than fade. 

Francis is quite a demanding lover. He started having sex at twelve, making it difficult for him to begin slow. Arthur reciprocates, no matter how uncomfortable. He gives himself away fully. Francis could see how uneasy he gets, but he never says no. He doesn’t push him away.

Francis looks up from his biology book to the sleeping Arthur on his bed. This was not how he planned to spend his afternoon. He can’t say he’s not disappointed but it’s not like he can do anything about it. Arthur fell asleep while they were making out, and no matter how much he tried to kiss him or roam his hands over his body, he could not elicit a reaction out of him. He had left him no choice but to stop.

Francis notices as tears spill out from his lover’s shut eyes as he caresses his fingers over the rowdy mess of white-streaked blond hair. He was not in favour of the white dye which he thinks might have been one of the primarily reasons why Arthur chose it. He’ll try to persuade him to go for Magenta Rose pink highlights next week; he is certain it would look gorgeous with the heavy navy eyeshadow Arthur sometimes paints on. He cups his tear-streaked face with his hand and starts to kiss his neck, his boyfriend’s neck where his name is now permanently marked. It takes him off-guard how much he liked the gesture, how much he needed it. He needed to be wanted so deeply, to the extent that Arthur showed. It was something that Francis didn’t know how much he craved, until he saw it.

That mark- it makes Arthur his.

Arthur chose to be his, and even if he does walk away from him, he can never really part away completely. Francis doesn’t even like tattoos. He finds them quite repulsing. However, his dear Arthur makes him gravitate towards the things he most detests. Francis was never able to see the beauty in body modifications until he met Arthur, as he is the only one who makes it magnetically attractive. Francis is not one to buy meaningless words -he knows most how words can be so empty. Actions speak to him much louder. “I think it’s time for you to wake up, mon ange,” He murmurs on his skin.

“Where am I?” Arthur says weekly, his features beginning to relax.

“You’re in my room, chéri.” He lifts his head from the crook of Arthur’s neck to face him, and wipes away at his tears. “Would you like to talk? Or should we continue where we left off?”

Arthur lefts up his hand to push down Francis’s head towards his own face. Their lips meet, and France’s can feel the tension disperse from Arthur’s body as he lays on top of him.

“I’m right here, mon trésor. Nothing can hurt you.”

Arthur is his.

* * *

Arthur likes Francis most right after they shag; he becomes so tender, less urgent. He wraps his arms around him so tightly, making him feel secure. His life does not seem too bad whenever he’s between Francis’s arms. They remain wrapped in each other’s arms for usually an hour after sex. Then Francis either wants to go again or says something stupid that absolutely demands an argument from Arthur.

“Mon chou, why do you hurt yourself when there are so many things that already cause you pain?” Francis speaks softly behind him, gently massaging his hip.

“It helps me think.” He responds after a minute without looking back at him.

“There are others ways, chéri.” Francis kisses his neck, “You know that you need to stop, yes?”

Arthur shifts so that he can face him. “Does it turn you off?” He gets a chuckle out of him. It makes Arthur smile.

“Non. Non, not at all, mon chaton.” He pecks his cheek, caressing his thumb across Arthur’s temple. “You shouldn’t feel like you have to do that to your body, Arthur. Should I be worried?”

He looks into his emerald eyes with the softest features, and Arthur has never felt so cared for to this extent before. Arthur loves him so much it hurts. It crushes him from within. His emotions are too intense, they choke him. He can’t imagine existing without him anymore; he can’t see a future without Francis in it. He cannot fathom the idea of not feeling like this again. Right in that moment, Arthur actually loves being himself no matter what problems he has to deal with. He can put up with anything if it means that Francis would look at him like how he is looking at him right now.

“Nope. Nothing to worry about.”

“Promise me that you’ll stop.”

The closeness, the tenderness; it hurts him, it melts away his heart. “I love you, Francis. So much.” He clutches at his heart while confessing.

“I know.” He smirks at him before capturing his lips. His hands traveling to Arthur’s ass.

He didn’t say it back.

Arthur’s eyes brim with tears as he kisses him back.

* * *

His hands are tied behind his back. His ankles are tied together, completely restricting his movement. The ropes are so tight, Arthur feels them tear away at his skin.

She makes her way towards him. She ties a rope around his neck all the while grinning at him with a smile too big it tears the corners of her mouth. Arthur looks back at her in absolute shock and stutters the glaring question he’s been pondering for months, “Why are you doing this?” 

She seems to have understood him. She titles her head before speaking, causing the gap in her throat to spread wider. “I…..ne..ver…..got……t..to see..you, b..baby A..rthur.” She spoke with a hoarse, cracked voice.

Before Arthur could make sense of her words, he gets dragged from the rope around his neck across the harsh ground. The friction generated between his face and the hard-ceramic surface burns as he feels the side of his face disintegrating. His air supply is cut off, halting any thoughts of pain or discomfort. The overwhelming need to inhale dominated every instinct that he could ever process.

He can’t breathe.

She stops dragging him abruptly, and he starts dry coughing as the pressure around his neck is reduced. He thinks she’ll leave, but instead she hangs him using a thick tree branch.

He can’t breathe.

He feels the compression on his airway. He wishes for his hands to be free as he flails on the rope, suffocating.

His lungs burn. His brain is screaming from the unforgiving pain stimuli. It overwhelms him.

Arthur wakes up in a sweat with his hands clutching at his throat.

It takes several minutes for him to regain a steady rhythm for his breathing. He slept for three hours this time, quite an improvement if he neglects the pounding headache and the feeling of fogginess and nausea.

It’s 5AM.

He gets up for a morning jog. He’s starting to get used to the nightmares. They are not as bad, the deeper he thinks about them. They’re probably god’s way of reminding him that no, in fact, he doesn’t want to die. There’s the addition of providing him with more time than other people to finish his school work, exercise, do embroidery, and practice the electric guitar. He should focus on the positives.

During his run, he feels like he’s being chased.

It makes him uneasy. By the time he slows down to take a break, he sees her standing in front of him blood streaming from her eyes, running down her cheeks until the drops fall down to her chest dying her white gown crimson.

In spite of being out of breath, he turns around and sprints back home. All the while, he sees insects crawling around him. He feels them on his body no matter how hard he clenches at his skin. He tries to shake his head, to close his eyes but nothing serves to rid him of, what he believes, to be an illusion.

When he gets back home, his mom is crying hysterically in the living room. Dylan is crying mutely as he pets Oliver, their regrettably fat cat, on the floor. Allister looks grim.

His father’s dead body was found hanged in the garage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was particularly difficult for me to write. I need to find me some happy fruk now :')
> 
> how do you like it so far?!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks so much for the supportive comments. they're much appreciated xoxo

Arthur never liked his father.

He has always wanted his father to vanish from the face of this earth; he has wanted him to die for as long as he can remember. He was very strict- a man that would go through any lengths to have his way. Bad moments are what prevailed in Arthur’s memory bank. Whenever he thought of his father before, he felt nothing but waves of anger, shame, humiliation and hurt. 

However, now his father is dead, and Arthur finds himself falling deeper in a blackhole. He cannot bring himself to hold onto his hurt. He is paralyzed with horror as the thoughts that were the base of his existence, his reasons to hate, were slowly seeping away from him.

Arthur has always relied on being bitter and angry, on holding onto things. The chocking feeling of injustice helps him accept who he is.

But now the comfort of his anger is ripped away from him.

Arthur tries to hold on to his essence. He tries to no avail. If anything, he feels guilty. Guilty for being loud. Guilty for acting up. Guilty for not being good enough. Guilty for giving his father one more thing to worry about. Guilty for being a waste of space. Guilty for being a burden. Guilty for the dream. Guilty for not seeing it coming.

Guilty.

He would rather be the victim than the perpetrator. He feels his world crumble right before him as he loses his sense of self.

All what he can remember of his father now is the time he scored the winning goal when he was twelve. His dad was so happy with him that he let him have a sip from his beer. He clapped him on his back proudly. “That’s my son. You’re a Kirkland- wouldn’t expect any less.” 

It has been one full month.

The memory still haunts him. He spends his days in his bed.

No one complains. No one lectures him. No one drags him out of bed to do anything. He only gets up to go to school, take exams and then heads right back to bed.

Francis sent him a single text. 

“Sorry for your loss, chér.”

That was it.

Arthur wants to go see him more than anything. He knows; however, how busy Francis is with university applications and the rest of that shit. Francis has a lot of ambition. Arthur knows that Francis wants to pursue both law and art. He doesn’t want to stand in the face of his future. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help feeling abandoned. Does he really take up that much space? Why doesn’t Francis want to see him?

Arthur is not used to initiating things with Francis. Throughout their time together, he couldn’t bring himself to approach him first, not even once. He can’t, for the life of him, figure out a way to communicate that he wants to see him. Everything he thinks of sounds too needy, and he’s too scared to push him away. Hence, whenever Francis approaches him, Arthur drops everything to be with him, no matter what time. 

And so, he waits for Francis as he burns with longing. He waits for him to call. He waits for him to initiate something more than a greeting and a chaste peck.

Arthur feels empty.

By the start of the summer holiday, their house turns quiet. His mum gets a waitressing job, and is gone most of the time. Patrick works double shifts. Allister finally gets enrolled in the police department. Dylan gets a job at Starbucks after the initial shock of not being able to work at a bar. He has always wanted to sleep in and work nights, so he’s not as pleased. His brothers stop getting under his skin, which makes him feel surprisingly lonely.

He just lays in bed cuddling Oliver. All the while, he sees both his father and her standing side to side in his room.

* * *

“I got accepted into PSL.” Francis declares as they lay in his bed after intercourse. After thirty days apart, it was the most passionate thing he had in a long time. Arthur clung to him the whole time, allowing him full control.

He didn’t seem upset with him over not attending the funeral. Francis neglected their relationship in favour of taking university acceptance exams. He had expected Arthur to make a scene, but he hadn’t. It made Francis feel an unwelcomed sense of guilt for getting away with being dismissive without the faintest attempts of being held accountable. 

He got the acceptance letter right before Arthur’s father has passed away. Francis kept his distance at the time, mostly because he did not like dealing with the grieving and he won’t make an exception to Arthur. Moreover, he sought it as an opportunity to keep his distance from Arthur- he didn’t like how attached he was getting to him.

Arthur was the first to cross his mind whenever he got good news, or wanted to share a new joke. It was completely out of the ordinary for him. He kept a distance from him in hopes of it slowly translating to how he feels. It is especially necessary for him to let go of Arthur now that it’s confirmed that he’ll be taking his bachelors in France. However, contrary to what he had hoped, he missed Arthur greatly. He swooped him to his mansion right after he was finished with his last exam. Maybe it’s not the distance that’ll help him let go.

He might need to do just the opposite. 

Arthur gapes at him for longer than appropriate. “The one in Paris?”

“Oui,” He holds Arthur’s chin, locking him in a kiss. He tightens his grip around Arthur’s waist once they part, caressing his hair absent mindedly. “Aren’t you going to congratulate me?” He looks at him with a smile.

“You’re leaving me.” Arthur responds to him softly after a somewhat uncomfortable pause.

“We have all summer, mon chaton.” He goes in for another kiss.

Arthur sets up, pulling away from him. Francis pulls at his arm indicating for him to lay back in bed. He strengthens his grip to force him down, but Arthur wouldn’t reciprocate. Francis gets up with a sigh to pour himself a glass of red wine. He hands one to Arthur who just keeps staring into space. Francis sits in front of him in bed and peers at him from under his glass. 

Francis leans back, looking at his boyfriend daringly. “Are you seriously upset with me right now?”

“No,” Arthur replies without looking back at him.

He offers him his glass again. Arthur takes it reluctantly, then chugs down the wine in two gulps. Francis moves his hand up his thigh, only to be slapped away. “Are you going to act like this the whole night?” He says, irritated.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Arthur doesn’t waste any time to respond. “You’re bloody breaking up with me. How the fuck am I supposed to act, wanker?” He looks at him with utter betrayal.

“Who said anything about breaking up?” He raises an eyebrow, in question.

“What happens once summer is over?” His voice wavers in spite of the raised volume.

“We’ll think of it once the time comes.” He attempts to touch Arthur’s knee.

Arthur hurls the empty wine glass on the floor, shards of glass splintering everywhere. “Fuck you. You…You don’t give a single fuck about me, and I’m throwing myself all over you.” Arthur gets up to get dressed, he hisses as a shard penetrates his foot.

Francis forces him on his lap taking advantage of Arthur’s vigour dimming down from the injury. 

“Look at the mess you’ve made.” Francis eases his grip as Arthur stops resisting. They both look down at his injured foot as it bleeds on the polished porcelain floor.

“What do you want me to do, Arthur?” He prompts him, resting his arm at Arthur’s lower back.

Arthur refuses to meet his gaze. Francis cups the back of his neck, forcing his distressed boyfriend to face him. “Do you really expect me to ditch university just so I can stay with you?” He utters it with spite that elicits a hurt look on his boyfriend’s beautiful features. The absence of endearment names ringing loudly in Arthur’s head. 

He opens his mouth and closes it a couple of times before formulating a response. “No, Francis, I just…” His forest-green eyes wander around before landing back on Francis’s clear-blue ones. “I love you. I’ve never loved anyone as much as I love you. And I’m just not ready to let you go.” He chokes out, tears threatening to escape.

“Then, how about we don’t waste the time we have left fighting, yes?” Francis looks at him with a steady gaze. Arthur nods in response before wrapping his arms around him tightly. Francis can feel Arthur’s tears running down his back as he slightly shakes. He gives him a few minutes before he throws him back in bed. He’s ready to try something new this time.

Arthur lets him, without a hint of resistance.

Francis silently wishes he’ll get bored of Arthur by the end of summer.

* * *

He can’t move. He can’t inhale a whiff oxygen in his lungs. His chest is so, so heavy.

Arthur recognizes that it’s sleep paralysis, but it only serves to make him feel more trapped. He focuses every waking cell in his brain to get up, to breathe. It doesn’t work, his chest feels like it’s about to be crushed. He lays in bed, the supposedly most comfortable place for him in this house, in absolute agony.

After what feels like an eternity, he wins the battle of control. He is able to open his eyes, only to be faced with her gaping eyes.

“Bloody hell,” he jumps out of bed, frantically looking around his and Dylan’s pitch-black room for the threat.

He gets off the floor once his breathing returns to normal to go use the restroom. He’s itching to go for a run. He has an absolute need to move after feeling like he couldn’t for so long.

Once he opens the upstairs bathroom door, he is faced with his mum, drenched in blood from the waist down, sprawled on the floor.

Arthur stares at her in utter horror, before he can formulate any words, he sees his father standing behind the sink with tears streaming down his face, his neck twisted in a way that shouldn’t be possible.

“Arthur, my darling, can you please help me…”. 

“Oh my god. Patrick. PATRICK. PATRICK, WAKE UP.” Arthur screeches, cutting her off, wanting nothing but for the sight in front of him to cease existing. 

“What the fuck, Arthur? Are you ok?” He hears Patrick coming up behind him, followed by a hand on his shoulder. _“Fuck.”_

“I...” Arthur takes two steps back.

“Arthur, go to your room.” Patrick barks at him as he barrels inside the bathroom.

He can’t take his eyes off the scene though.

“What’s going on?” Allister yawns, heading towards them. _“Oh shit,”_ He exclaims as he sees Patrick carrying their mum with blood dripping everywhere. “I’ll start the car.” Allister doesn’t waste time dashing down the stairs.

“Arthur, get out of the way,” Patrick orders him sternly.

He’s rooted in place. He can’t unsee his mother, his father. Everything is happening so fast, yet so slow. He feels Dylan’s gentle touch pull his arm to move him from the doorway.

They both stare at the scene for a long time after Patrick descends ungracefully down the stairs, carrying their delirious mother, her blood dripping everywhere. 

“She... she was...”

“It’s okay, Arthur. She’ll be fine.” Dylan embraces him tightly from behind to comfort him, or maybe just to comfort himself.


	5. Chapter 5

“She was pregnant?” Dylan exclaims in surprise upon hearing the news.

“Yes, Dylan. We’ve established that fifteen minutes ago. Are you always this slow?” Allister taunts his brother between puffs of smoke.

“Shut up, prick.” Dylan hisses under his breath, his concerned features turning into pure irritation.

They’re gathered in the kitchen around English breakfast tea, all of them looking quite rough from being woken up in a distasteful manner. Their mother was said to have an unfortunate miscarriage at thirteen weeks. They’re expecting her to return home by tonight. Arthur thinks she should stay in the hospital longer, considering the amount of blood she lost, but who is he to call the shots. 

Arthur reaches over the table to grab a cigarette. He is stopped by Patrick grabbing his wrist. “No.”

“Come on, both of you are smoking. Can’t expect me to take advice from you lot.” Arthur tries to pry his hand from his brother’s unyielding grasp, all the while maintaining what he believes is a death stare. 

“You’re sixteen.” Patrick retorts, unphased. 

Allister snorts. “Do as you please. Can’t be arsed to give a lost-cause, such as yourself, the time of day.”

Patrick gives him a look of what seems like disappointment or pity, Arthur can’t decide which, before releasing his hand. “Don’t make a habit of it” He addresses his youngest brother seriously as he lights a cigarette for him.

Arthur sits back on his chair pleased, feeling like he won a battle of some sort. “I can’t believe that I could’ve had a younger brother.” Arthur blurts out after a few minutes of silence. “Or sister.” He adds as an afterthought.

“Trust me, that’s nothing to get excited about. Especially if they turn out to be like you.” Allister gestures at Arthur with a grimace, hiding a hint of a smile.

“I’m actually rather disappointed. It would have been nice to have someone new in the house.” Dylan says to his mug, in a tone considerably lower than Allister’s.

“Not to be a dickhead, but I’m glad that the young fella is out of the way. I think we need to cutdown, not expand.”

“Allister, keep that shit to yourself.” Patrick punches his brother’s shoulder in dismay, eliciting a wince from the assaulted. “Unbelievable.” He gets up and removes himself from the table in barely contained anger. They hear the downstairs bathroom slam after a few seconds.

“That was quite insensitive of you to say.” Dylan voices out.

“Ultimate dickhead.” Arthur adds.

“Just being honest.”

Not long after, all of his brothers head out for work. Leaving Arthur alone in the house. Arthur doesn’t like being alone. The silence is deafening.

That’s when he starts to hear the faint sound of a crying baby. 

* * *

“Useless.”

“Empty.”

“Waste of space.”

“Throw yourself off a bridge.”

“Over in a few seconds.”

“Cheap whore.”

“Cut. Cut. Cut. Cut deep into your flesh.”

“Go to kitchen.”

“Take the sharpest knife.”

“Run it threw your arm.”

“Your neck.”

“WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR.”

Arthur clutches his head, pulls at his hair. He crouches, resting his head on the floor. He screams, trying to shut them up. It makes them louder; they shout back at him relentlessly.

He dashes to the bathroom, and runs the water over himself in an attempt to stop hearing them. He clenches at his skin as the voices mesh inside his head. He feels himself hyperventilating. He shuts his eyes-closed so tightly that they burn.

Nothing helps.

Arthur reaches for a razor and impales it roughly into his thigh.

He looks down at his leg as blood gushes out. He feels light-headed. His senses shut down for a moment before he tones back in to the sound of water splattering around him.

Once he turns off the water, he hears the baby’s crying growing louder and louder.

* * *

Francis is holding Arthur in his arms as they lay on his king-bed, watching a classic French movie. Arthur keeps commenting about every other thing the actors do. It perplexes him how his boyfriend is able to juggle reading subtitles, coming up with snide remarks and looking back at Francis occasionally to catch his reactions. Francis likes to consume media thoughtfully; he doesn’t usually appreciate any kind of interruption or unnecessary commentary. However, in this case, he could not, no matter how hard he tries, be annoyed with Arthur. His input is hilarious. He is too entertained by him to the extent that, by the end of the movie, he is more focused on Arthur’s comments than the actual events.

Once the movie ends, Francis flips through the channels, settling for a random cooking show. Arthur keeps critiquing the chief with no solid base for his complaints whatsoever. Francis can’t help but argue with him, as it is so forsakenly obvious that Arthur doesn’t have the slightest clue about anything taking place in a kitchen. His arguments are so farfetched that Francis can’t even keep a straight face as his boyfriend speaks. He laughs until his stomach hurts. How is it possible to become this euphoric after a simple conversation?

“Can you make this?” Arthur looks back at him as he asks. In the plasma-screen TV in front of them, there is a lady making a baked good alongside a chocolate dressing.

“For you, mon chéri, of course.” He meets his lips, caressing the side of his face with his hand.

He takes Arthur to the kitchen, and what a pain he is. He is so adamant on helping, and yet everything he seems to touch makes Francis’s job ten times harder. Even the simple task of breaking an egg somehow results in a disaster when Arthur does it. It humours him how someone as intelligent as his boyfriend can be so glaringly incompetent in the kitchen.

Francis carries him away from the stove several times, placing him on the opposite counter, in an attempt at damage control. He makes amends by letting him stir the batter which succeeds in stopping him from grunting and pouting- Francis concludes that it did the trick.

He puts a spoon to Arthur’s mouth for him to taste the dressing. Arthur hums before making a remark, “Too sweet.”

Francis holds the back of Arthur’s neck to guide him to his mouth. He ventures into Arthur’s mouth with his tongue evoking a soft moan from him. “Non, that’s just you,” he retorts upon pulling away. Arthur turns away from him, his face turning red. Francis smiles, pleased at how his compliment is perceived.

The outcome does not turn out as great as he would have liked, but Arthur seems to be really happy with it. Francis thinks of a minimum of fifteen ways to improve the recipe as he shares a piece with Arthur; meanwhile, Arthur exclaims how he has never tasted anything as good in any of his past lives emphasizing how it was all thanks to his help.

Francis hears his parents making their way into the house as they’re tidying up the kitchen. “Bonsoir, Francis.” His mother kisses him on both cheeks, clearly happy to see him. “Who’s you’re friend?” She asks once her eyes land on Arthur.

They have a strict only-French rule in the house that he is only allowed to bend once guests are over. Francis is suddenly hyper aware of how Arthur looks; the black nail polish, the various piercings, the dark eyeliner, the bleached hair and the tattoo. He’s so worried his parents would say something that would upset Arthur.

“This is Arthur, my boyfriend.” He wraps his arm around Arthur’s shoulder as he speaks. He could feel Arthur tensing up uncomfortably. Arthur had never actually met his parents as they were too busy with work when they first moved here, so they were hardly ever home when Francis brought anyone over. It was a rarity in itself that the two of the came back home at a decent hour, and together nonetheless.

He can see that both his parents were taken aback as they greeted Arthur; a kiss on both cheeks, which in turn served to make Arthur look taken aback. “Would you like to stay for dinner?” His mum held both of her hands together, smiling intently at Arthur.

“Oh no. I shouldn’t impose. Thank you, though.”

“Not at all. Don’t be ridiculous. We’d love to get to know our son’s boyfriend, if you would only give us the pleasure. Isn’t that right, dear?” His dad wraps an arm around his wife, mirroring his son.

Francis arches an eyebrow at him, questioning his genuineness. He can see them eyeing Arthur’s neck which makes him feel a tad defensive over him. Arthur looks up at him to get him out of the situation, but Francis chooses to back up his parents as he does not want Arthur to leave yet. “It’s ok, Arthur. They’re nice, I promise.” Francis pecks him at his temple.

Arthur gives him a look before he complies. “Right.”

His parents start to make polite conversation about school and future plans, and Francis himself is impressed with his boyfriend’s answers. He refrains from swearing, which noticeably expands his use of vocabulary. Francis became so adjusted to Arthur’s foul mouth that it’s strange for him to hear him speaking without the consistent intervention of his personalised colourful language.

His mum moves around the kitchen so effortlessly as she prepares four separate dishes, occasionally stopping to join in the conversation. Francis is bewildered at the scene that takes place before his eyes, his parents are in one of their rare zealous moods and they seem to be really enjoying the new company. His dad engages Arthur in a lengthy discussion about football, so Francis gets up to help his mum out with preparing dinner. She normally shoos him away, preferring to have the kitchen for herself; however, she makes an exception tonight.

As they sit down around the table to eat, he is pleased to notice that Arthur has become considerably more comfortable than he was two hours prior.

“So, Arthur, I’m really intrigued on how you decided on this.” His mother gestures at her neck to indicate the meaning behind her words.

“We don’t mean to pry, of course. Answer at your comfort, but I must say, that it is most unusual, especially for your age.” His father follows up.

Arthur promptly rises his hand to his neck. He looks from one to the other as their words sink in. “Umm…well, there’s not much to say, I’m afraid. I like him very much and it felt natural to me- like something that I wouldn’t want to forget, even if we do part ways.” Arthur tilts his head as he speaks.

“It is still a bit excessive; don’t you agree?” His mother looks intently at Arthur, pressing harder on the subject.

“Not to mention how it would affect you in the job market,” his father throws in before taking a sip from his wine.

“I see what you mean. Regardless, it’s already done and I don’t have much choice but to accept what comes with it. There’s no use living in regret.” He looks away, clearly uncomfortable.

“I imagine your parents weren’t…” His father starts.

“Maman, papa, arrêtez!” Francis interjects. He clenches his jaw, beyond infuriated with his parents.

“I’ll go get dessert,” his mother announces cheerfully.

They speak no more of it for his sake. 

They fill the awkward silence that follows with discussions about the company and the shocking American mannerisms that they had to get accustomed to. His parents are great at salvaging conversations after they set them on fire themselves. He ought to be grateful for them for passing that trait to him as well. Arthur seems less upset about the invasion of his privacy than Francis himself.

“Thank you for your hospitality,” Arthur states shortly after dinner. “It was very nice meeting you both.”

“The pleasure is ours,” his mother replies, hugging and kissing him goodbye.

His father settles with a farewell gesture from the couch, his senses relaxed from the excess wine he consumed.

Francis pulls Arthur closer to him from the waist as they both approach the front door. “Stay over for the night, mon chéri,” he murmurs as he kisses his neck.

“My brother’s waiting for me outside.” He adds when Francis doesn’t let go of him, “I have to go.”

Francis kisses him goodbye, and once he pulls away, Arthur beams at him and says, “I love you.”

Before he gets the chance to form a response, Arthur pecks his cheek. “You don’t have to say it back. I already know that you don’t.”

Francis watches him as he leaves, slightly shaking his head no. Arthur turns around to wave goodbye before he gets inside his brother’s car. Arthur’s parting words leave a bad taste in his mouth. He should’ve said something back, or at least kissed him again to stop him from speaking.

“He’s really cute.” His mother says from behind him. “A shame you’ll be leaving so soon. Close the door, my sweet.”

When Francis lies down in bed that night and sleep is about to take him, he realises that he forgot to have sex with him this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had fun writing this one :D


	6. Chapter 6

He’s naked, and cold.

He looks around the dark woods, feeling the wet grass under his feet. The trees are but illuminated by the dim light of the full moon. It is most enchanting. Arthur forces his eyes open in spite of the assaulting rain drops making their way inside and obscuring his vision, to behold the incapitating beauty of the nature that’s around him. He senses the heavy rain as it makes contact with his body. He’s being cleansed. From his sins, his misfortunes.

He feels free. At peace.

He sees her crouching beside the closest tree to where he stands, rain-water mixing with thick crimson blood upon impact. Her joints bend, bones creak as she makes her way towards him.

Arthur starts to walk towards her. If she is death, then death is better than fear.

She holds his throat, obturating his windpipe. He feels his lungs burn, his head throb and he smiles at her.

He doesn’t want anyone to save him anymore.

He can’t breathe.

He’s content.

She uses her unoccupied hand to push his hair away from his face. She looks at him as he starts to go numb, her eyes leaking blood.

“I… wanted to… love you.”

Arthur feels his consciousness being dragged away. He wakes up, but he cannot move. He starts to panic. His brain screams at his muscles to work. He cannot push himself upwards. His face is half shoved into a pillow, body prone on the bed.

It says on the internet that if you don’t sleep on your back, you won’t get sleep paralysis. What rubbish. He’s going to suffocate to death now all because of his stupidity. Why did he trust some random information without checking if it was from a reliable source?

Fuck him.

He feels a hand on his neck, and his brain goes on overdrive. The terror surges through his body, enabling him to finally split his eyes open. He pushes himself off the bed with a gasp.

He feels a hand touch his scalp.

He yelps away, his eyes bulging to look for the threat. He sees a figure looming over him. He can’t hear anymore as the only sound that registers to his brain is his racing heart.

“Bloody hell, it’s four in the bleeding morning. Can I please get some goddamned sleep?”

Arthur is snapped back into reality, his senses sharpening again upon hearing a loud thud as his brother punches the wall. Dylan’s grim voice serves to clear his head from the fog surrounding his brain.

“Sorry, sweetheart. You can go back to sleep now,” a sweet feminine voice pipe up.

Dylan groans back at the voice.

Arthur recognises the voice as his mother’s. “Mum! What are you doing here?” Arthur scrunches his eyes trying to make sense of whatever the hell is happening around him whilst still trying to gulp down as much air as he can suffice.

“I was checking up on you, love.” His mum responds, reaching out for his face.

He flinches back. “Why?” He snaps in genuine confusion. She was about to send him into cardiac arrest.

“Jesus fucking Christ. Arthur, get out. Muuum.” Dylan whines.

“Darling...” Their mother starts to respond.

Arthur rushes outside of the room, disoriented. His mother follows him. She reaches for his hand, but he pulls himself away. He doesn’t want to be touched.

“CLOSE THE DOOR.” Arthur flinches as he hears his older brother shout through the door.

His mum grimaces at the command, and moves to close the door behind her. Arthur finds himself standing in the hallway facing his mother.

“Alright?” Arthur asks her slowly, maintaining eye-contact.

She chuckles awkwardly. “Yes. Yes, dear. Are you alright? Had a bit of a fright there.” She seems to have more to say, but Arthur is too groggy to process her at the moment.

“Fine. Need the restroom.” He heads straight to the upstairs bathroom shower to clear his head.

He hears the baby cries still.

He puts on his running gear. He wants to run until he can’t think, until his lungs burn. He wants nothing more but to drift into the blasting music of his favourite metal bands through his headphones. To feel like there’s no one and nothing but the music.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Arthur hears as he reaches for the front door. He turns around to see his mum sat on the living room couch with a cuppa in her hands.

“I’m going for a run.”

“No, you’re not.” His mum responds, sternly.

“Why? What did I do?” Arthur scowls at her.

“The sun has not risen yet. You are not going outside while its still dark.”

“What? Mum.” Arthur drags out her name in dismay. “It’ll be out in half an hour. I’ve always done this. Why do you have a problem with me now?”

“I don’t have a problem with you, my dear. I’m just worried about you. You can talk to me, Arthur. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“Don’t be. I’m fine. Now, please let me be.” He reaches for the door again, yearning for fresh air.

“Arthur, you are _not_ to step outside this door unless I allow it. I am your mother, and you will listen to me.”

“ _Jesus Christ!_ ”

“Do not use the lord’s name in vain.” He has never heard her use that tone with him before. She almost sounds patronizing. “Your brothers will be waking up in a couple of hours. We’ll all have breakfast together. Arthur, you will be joining us. You can’t keep isolating yourself like this.”

What the hell?

“Sure.” He responds in a low tone trying to be respectful as to not rile her up more than she already is. He bites at the insides of his cheeks until he can taste blood to stop himself from arguing. Surely, she can see that she’s being unreasonable. He lets her have her fit without further retorts, because just two weeks ago she was sprawled in a pool of blood in front of him, and he’d rather her nag him than not be there at all. Arthur agrees to everything that follows, escaping at the first opening he gets to the garage.

He looks around the garage, suppressing whatever emotion his brain is trying to force down his body. He feels himself hyperventilating, and he wants nothing but for it to stop.

For everything to stop.

He has no control over anything in his life. He feels so trapped, so suffocated. He can’t even go out for a fucking run. Damn it all to hell. And every bloody attempt he makes to create a sense of control -to feel like he’s running his miserable empty life and not the other way around- blows up in his face.

He slides down his trousers, and runs a pocket knife diagonally through his thigh.

The pain is blinding.

He rests his back against the wall and shuts his eyes closed. His breathing returns to a normal rhythm.

He feels in charge again.

Arthur looks around their garage; the dusty floor, the cracked walls, the part of the ceiling where his father has hung himself. He waits until the pain-induced clarity starts to fade to reach for a first aid kit. The alcohol wipes burn. They knock the air straight out of him.

It takes a few minutes, after patching his leg up, for him to start hearing the crying baby. 

He picks up his guitar and starts to play.

The song that has been stuck at his head since the first time he heard her cry. The baby, whom he believes, is his younger sister who never got the chance to live.

He sings, and drowns away the cries with his instrument, his voice.

The music, the lyrics ground him. His distorted feelings flow through them like a medium.

He finally understands what the words mean for him.

  
Last fire will rise  
Behind those eyes  
Black house will rock  
Blind boys don't lie

Immortal fear  
That voice so clear  
Through broken walls  
That scream I hear!

Cry, little sister! (Thou shalt not fall)  
Come, come to your brother! (Thou shalt not die)  
Unchain me, sister! (Thou shalt not fear)  
Love is with your brother! (Thou shalt not kill)

Blue masquerade  
Strangers look on  
When will they learn  
This loneliness?

Temptation heat  
Beats like a drum  
Deep in your veins  
I will not lie

Little sister! (Thou shalt not fall)  
Come, come to your brother! (Thou shalt not die)  
Unchain me, sister! (Thou shalt not fear)  
Love is with your brother! (Thou shalt not kill)

My Shangri-Las  
I can't forget  
Why you were mine  
I need you now!

Cry, little sister  
Come, come to your brother  
Unchain me, sister  
Love is with your brother

Cry, little sister! (Thou shalt not fall)  
Love is with your brother! (Thou shalt not die)  
Unchain me, sister! (Thou shalt not fear)  
Love, love is with your brother! (Thou shalt not kill)  
Cry, little sister! (Thou shalt not fall)  
Love is with your brother! (Thou shalt not die)  
Unchain me, sister! (Thou shalt not fear)  
Love is with your brother! (Thou shalt not kill)

* * *

Francis is on top of him.

He is so heavy; Arthur feels crushed. He doesn’t usually mind whatever Francis executes with him; however, this time, he wants him to stop.

He feels trapped, invaded.

He feels Francis’s hand makes its’ way down his body and he jumps to push it away. Instead, he guides his boyfriend’s hand to his face to prevent him from accidentally reopening his self-inflicted wounds. He doesn’t want to converse in the matter. He doesn’t want any questions.

Francis obligingly cups the side of his face, caressing it with his thumb. “Are you ok?” He stops to squint at him in an attempt to decipher Arthur’s expression under his dimly lit room. Arthur refuses to take off any article of clothing with the lights on. It doesn’t make sense to Francis as he had already seen everything there is to see of him; nonetheless, he lets him have his way and suffices with the light emitting from several lit scented candles alongside the glow of the full moon.

“Fine. Can you go slower please?”

“Is this ok?”

“Yes.”

It’s not okay. Why is he so stupid? Why didn’t he ask him to stop? Why can’t he speak his mind when it matters? What is wrong with him? Francis would stop if he would just _ask_ him.

It hurts.

“Relax, mon amor,” he breathes on Arthur’s neck.

Arthur holds onto him, clutches to him until he finishes.

Francis kisses his temple once he’s done. They both lay on his soft, unnecessarily spacious bed, panting. Arthur normally loves being held at this stage. This time, however, is different. Everything seems clammy, sticky and disgusting. Arthur rests his head on Francis’s shoulder, holding his hand with both of his to avoid any further contact.

“Would you like some wine?” Francis’s husky voice breaks the silence that has lasted a full twenty minutes.

“No, I’m alright.” Arthur kisses his shoulder after he responds, earlier feelings of discomfort diminishing with time.

“I’ve got a Château Margaux bottle.” He looks at Arthur as he reoffers.

“Congrats, mate. Good for you,” he mimics an overly-enthusiastic voice half-heartedly.

“You realise it’s most expensive…”

“You realise I don’t give a shit,” Arthur cuts him off with no spite to his words. “Besides, why would you waste it on me? It’s not like I can tell the difference.” He lets go of Francie’s arm in favour if laying flat on his back.

“Not a waste if it’s…”

Arthur hisses as Francis’s praying hand does exactly what he was trying to prevent.

“Mon dieu!” Francis hastily extracts his hand upon feeling the warm wetness. He turns on the light switch, unleashing the blinding lights from the two reading lamps on either side of his bed.

Francis looks up from his bloodied hand to see Arthur moving to sit on his knees with blood covering his upper thigh.

“Sorry about your sheets,” Arthur says, distractedly. He holds his wound in attempt at minimising the mess. He moves to get off the white sheets, but Francis pushes him back down gently.

“Let me see.” He looks genuinely concerned, and Arthur hates himself for it.

“It’s fine. I’m fine. It wasn’t your fault, don’t worry.” He brushes him off, attempting to _get off the white sheets_.

Francis keeps him at his spot firmly. He crouches down on the floor in front of Arthur to have a better look, and Arthur has never felt so naked.

He feels violated all over.

He wants to leave.

He wants to be alone.

“Leave me be, Francis.” He pushes at him meekly.

Francis sighs and clenches the skin between his eyes with the tips of his non-bloodied fingers.

Arthur scoffs. Francis looks absolutely fed up with him. Arthur can’t really blame him. Every single person in his family is fed up with him, and the sad thing is that he can’t bring himself to care anymore.

“I thought you said you’d stop.” Francis rubs at Arthur’s knee. His touch, his voice are all so gentle.

Arthur just looks at him.

“Can you please tell me why?” Francis questions him. He awaits an answer patiently all the while looking at him with the softest of gazes.

Arthur looks away.

“Arthur, I’m trying to understand you.”

It’s too much for Arthur.

He can’t handle it.

‘Stop being nice to me’, Arthur pleads at him from inside his head.

Arthur wants nothing but for Francis to tell him how disgusting he is. He wants to get hit, punched, hurt, _abused._

Anything else, for the love of god.

He can’t take his kindness. It’s too much.

It hurts him more than any kind of pain he has ever felt, more than the sharpest blade, more than his father’s belt.

Stop. Please.

“Arthur,” Francis prompts him again.

“It’s nothing.” He’s not looking at him. 

“It’s not nothing, Arthur. What on earth would possess you to do this to yourself?”

He wouldn’t understand.

Arthur makes the mistake of thinking that he might.

“It…it helps me think.” He looks at him then, and he can see the scepticism taking hold of his features.

“There are other ways, mon chéri. You can’t keep doing this. You know this, yes?”

Arthur gets up from the bed. He walks away from Francis and starts to put his clothes back on.

“I’m fine. You don’t need to worry. Look, it stopped bleeding already.” He indicates before pulling his trousers over the wound.

Francis hugs him from behind tentatively. “Arthur, let me help you. We’ll figure this out together.”

“Jesus, Francis, why is it bothering you this much? It never bothered you before,” he expresses agitatedly, pulling himself away from Francie’s warmth.

He is uncomfortable.

He doesn’t want to discuss this further.

Francis looks taken aback by his remark. He recovers shortly and states, “You need to address it as a problem, Arthur. Only then can we begin to get past it.” He reaches for his hands, linking them with his own.

“It won’t be your problem much longer, love.” Arthur pecks his cheek, untangling his hands from him. “Goodnight.” He turns away from him to leave.

Francis pulls him back from his elbow. “Arthur,” he cradles Arthur’s face and rests their foreheads against each other.

He utters after a pause, “I love you.”

Arthur feels like he just got slapped. He almost believes him.

Almost.

He shakes his head at him slightly. “You never loved me. You just loved how much I love you,” Arthur replies to him softly with a pained smile. His voice cracks up as he speaks. “Don’t confuse that because of what you just saw.” He touches the side of Francis’s face.

“Don’t shove your thoughts in my mouth, Arthur.” Francis grasps his upper arm not so gently. His voice sharpens, visibly annoyed with Arthur. His features soften as he adds, “I mean it.”

“I don’t think you do.” He whispers back.

Francis features hardens in response, his gaze turning cold. He lets go of Arthur’s arm then, it bulges with a dull sense of pain from the additional pressure it has been subjected to.

“I’ll drive you home.” Arthur hears upon opening the bedroom door.

“I’m good to walk.”

Francis starts to insist on his offer. Arthur looks at him pleadingly, “Please, love, I need space.”

Francis opens up the wine he has promised earlier in the night. He drinks alone, staring through the window at the beautiful night sky. Its beauty taunts him, as he wishes for nothing more but to gaze at his love as he is engulfed by the sight of the sky, the stars, the full moon.

The painting is incomplete.

Francis can’t shake off the dreadful feeling of loss. He can’t stop his mind from pressing the thought.

He was too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i tried (but failed) to not add the whole lyrics. the song is cry little sister by Marilyn Manson. it's such a powerful song that i feel really suits where i'm taking Arthur in this story.  
> hope you like the story thus far:)


	7. Chapter 7

“Oi, Art,” Arthur looks up from the words that engrossed him in a reality that’s different to his. The world he built disintegrates, and he sees their shabby living room rather than a suicide pact. He sees his family slouching around him instead of the dismembered bodies that dance around his vision with each sentence his brain dissects. He’s reading The Stand by Stephen King and things are not going so well, let’s keep it at that.

“Tea?” Allister asks once he gets hold of his brother’s attention.

“Yes, please.” Arthur responds, grateful for the interruption as things in the book were getting quite grim even for him.

It’s Sunday afternoon; the Kirkland’s are all gathered around for tea. Arthur abandons his novel and settles for watching the football game displayed on TV. His brothers seem quite engrossed- quiet but the occasional “Come on! Come on, GOAL!”, “Come on, _damn,_ even mum coulda got this one.” or anything along those lines.

His mum is sitting on the couch next to him doing embroidery. He tries his best to avert his eyes from the piece she’s working on as Arthur’s overly critical brain can’t help but to make him feel like his own embroidery is worthless, that he’ll never be as good as his mother.

He forces himself to exist within the moment. It’s a sunny afternoon. The sun is so warm. He’s having some excellent tea with a sweet chocolate muffin. His mum seems happy that they’re around her. His brothers are…well, not as annoying as they could be. His boyfriend’s pretending that their most recent major argument had never occurred. Arthur is as comfortable as he could ever really get.

Things are not so bad.

* * *

“Are you taking the piss?” Arthur interjects, cutting off Francis’s animated speech.

Francis holds Arthur’s hand with his own, rubbing his thumb in circles against his boyfriend’s soft flesh. His other hand holds his third glass of wine for the night. “No, cher. I’m serious.” He speaks the words with emphasis after a rather hard, grim stare for being interrupted in an ungraceful manner.

“I want you.” He says before capturing Arthur’s lips.

They’re seated on a beige couch in Francis’s bedroom. They’ve had a decent date, Arthur thinks. Well, before this wild conversation anyway.

They had first gone to an arts museum. Arthur can see why Francis finds the illustrations amusing; he does. However, he can’t reason the amount of time Francis spends looking at each and every bloody piece. Arthur would be out of the museum in thirty minutes tops if it weren’t for Francis speculating the artists’ state of mind and feelings and all that bullshit at every bloody stop. Arthur had to drag him from piece to piece, from section to section, from floor to floor to speed up the process and still he lost three precious hours of his life in that damned building.

Francis has taken him for ice-cream right after to make it up for him. Arthur was genuinely trying to compromise, but three-bloody-hours in a place that he was not keen on stepping a foot in did not seem like a fair compromise to him. He couldn’t help acting grumpy.

The ice-cream did the trick though- Francis has managed to salvage his mood. They went for a walk then, and ended the night with a nice dinner at a sit-down restaurant. It was more extravagant than Arthur would have liked, but the food was good so he had nothing to complain about.

They were done with dinner at ten-past-eleven, and as late as it was Francis has insisted for Arthur to come back with him to his house. Arthur declined at first, but complied in the end as to not get in an argument.

It is a lovely night and there is no need to end it on a bad note- especially considering that they’re running on borrowed time.

“What do you say, mon amor?” Francis asks upon pulling away from him.

Arthur bites his lip, his teeth clank against the metal piercing at the side of his bottom lip. “I think that you might be drunk.” He pecks his lips again before taking the wine glass from his hands and placing it on a close by coffee-table.

Francis chuckles softly. “Funny, Arthur, as it would probably be the case for you.” He winks at Arthur, evidently proud of being a borderline alcoholic at seventeen. 

Arthur makes a show of rolling his eyes at him, if only to confirm the fact that he absolutely does not think twice about his very poor alcohol tolerance.

Francis wraps an arm around Arthur’s waist pulling him tightly to him. “I meant every word. I’ll take care of you,” he says. Their faces are but an inch apart.

Arthur looks at his soft features, searching for a sign of uncertainty. He doesn’t know what to make of all this. Francis sat him down and started spouting absolute rubbish. Francis said that he wants him to come with him to Paris, to live with him in the same apartment.

He wants Arthur to drop everything and fuck off with him to Paris.

“And your parents?” Arthur grasps at any thread that resembles logic.

“They don’t mind. They want me to be happy, and I’m happiest with you, mon amor.” Francis moves to find his lips, but Arthur moves out of his reach, the words still ringing in his ears.

“We just need for your mother to sign some consent forms, that’s all it takes.” He continues to speak of it as if it’s possible.

“Francis, I’m not going to a country where I don’t speak the language,” Arthur says, trying to close the topic altogether.

“That’s not an excuse. You can learn; I’ll _teach_ you.”

Arthur looks at him in horror.

“Or, I can sign you up for beginner’s French classes once we’re there. You’ll take your senior year online, so you don’t really need to worry about the language barrier.”

“Francis…” Arthur starts, agitated.

Francis cups his face between his hands. “Arthur, mon chatton, I’ll take care of everything.”

“I simply cannot be this indebted to you.”

“You won’t be. I’m making the choice. I want you to be with me,” Francis retorts.

He doesn’t get it. He makes everything sound so easy; it _infuriates_ Arthur.

“Well, you can’t have everything you want.”

Francis lets go of his face. He looks at him stoically, patience wearing thin. “I thought you’d be happy.”

“Life just doesn’t work like this. It’s not that simple.”

Francis sighs. “Mine does. And yours could be too if you would just stop complicating it _unnecessarily_.”

“What the hell?”

Francis takes a sip from his abandoned wine glass and leans back. “You’ve always hated this place, Arthur. I’m offering you a way out. Why so difficult?”

“I’m not difficult,” Arthur snaps. Why does he have to be so condescending? Damned bastard.

Francis chuckles at the outburst. “Just think about it, okay? I’ll be leaving in a month to settle in the apartment. I would love for you to be there.”

* * *

Arthur’s consciousness is dragged aggressively from the blissful, darkened clutches of sleep into the glaring brightness of their gloomy living room. He finds himself sleeping on the carpet with Oliver tucked between his arms. Oliver licks at his face as he awakes forcing him to open his glazy eyes to the harsh light.

It’s so loud. The overlapping voices grind at his brain.

He forces himself to sit up. He sees both Patrick and Allister having some sort of row. It’s their what…forth this week? It’s always about something stupid as far as Arthur is concerned. Either one of them cannot let go of their ego- that’s the main problem. Ever since their father passed away, they have been having this invisible dispute over power? Control? Arthur can’t really decide.

“Can you guys please argue quietly?” He yells.

He starts to make his way to his room once it’s clear that they both have ignored him. Once he passes in-between them, Allister hauls him roughly from his shoulder to get him out of his line of sight. Arthur’s body slams into the mantlepiece, a sulfuric vase drops on impact. He recoils away appalled at the unrequired assault.

The vase breaks making an ear-shattering noise. 

His brothers are shocked into absolute silence. Dust is scattered everywhere. Arthur starts to cough as the dust abstracts his airways. He sees her standing in the midst of the chaos. She looks at him solemnly.

“Nana,” Allister utters with a scratchy voice. 

Arthur starts to hear an overwhelming number of overlapping voices. His vision blurs, and he feels suffocated.

He hears his brothers callout his name in the mix of the deafening noise before everything goes black. 


	8. Chapter 8

Arthur is falling into darkness.

The breath is knocked out of his being. He feels his heart wrench as he freefalls. He looks into the nothingness with a glaze over his eyes.

Is this it?

He is standing on a pavement.

Everything is hazy. The sun is so hot, so bright. He squints, straining his eyes, in effort to see.

He hears the ear-screeching sound of loud breaks.

A child.

The child is runover by a car. He’s sliced in half.

There is so much blood.

“Oh my god,” a voice speaks from behind him.

Arthur looks back to see a middle-aged woman make her way out of a cottage. She walks slowly to the dismembered body, and crouches down near the head.

“Tom, Tommy, my boy. I’m so sorry.” She strokes at his hair. His emerald eyes still wide open in shock, they stare blankly at the bright blue sky.

“Thomas,” he hears her voice crack then.

A similar-looking child passes Arthur. The child touches her shoulder.

“Mum, that’s Arthur. Not me.”

The woman looks at the child features for a few seconds before her face crumbles.

“What? No. No. No. _ARTHUR._ ”

She howls, and clutches at the child’s barely holding abdomen. She makes sounds that are so wretched, so unhuman.

The child cries softly, retreating from his mother’s side. “You wished it was me.”

There’s blood everywhere; it obstructs Arthur’s vision.

“Arthur,”

Arthur is pulled back into the light by the chord of Patrick’s voice.

He’s freezing.

“ _Why the fuck am I drenched?_ ”

“You fainted like some bloody princess. We had to do something to wake you up.” Allister gives him a half-arsed apologetic smile.

He’s enjoying this. Arthur knows it. The water didn’t have to be this cold.

“Are you alright?” Patrick clasps Arthur’s shoulder. His gaze is, for once, patient.

“Fine.”

“You know why you passed out, Art? You don’t eat right. You don’t sleep properly. Can you please start acting your age, at least? That’s all we fuckin ask.” That patience did not last very long, has it?

“Bugger off, Patrick.”

He’s so tired; he doesn’t have the energy to fight with anyone. Allister was the one who slammed him for no fucking reason. How the hell did it come to this? Why is it somehow his fault?

Arthur runs his hand through the ashes. “She passed away two years ago, hasn’t she?”

“Yes, right before we moved to this rubbish country.” Allister responds to his question whilst stretching his back.

“Why have I never seen her?”

“We don’t speak of this.” Patrick shuts Arthur down instantly, speaking the words with great emphasis. “Go to bed, aye? You should get some sleep. I’ll wake you up for dinner.”

“So…should we just vacuum this mess? Or is there a ritual for when you drop your dead nana?” Allister asks whilst pacing about the living room. “Oh shit, you reckon she’s still resting in peace?” He says once he accidentally steps into a pile of her ashes.

The woman stands close behind Allister. She tilts her head at him as her essence morphs and twists into her, the ever-present demon that haunts him.

She’s drenched in thick blood.

Arthur looks away. He digs his hands into his thighs to stop from shaking. “Why did she die?”

“Lung cancer, took her out fast. She was a smoker alright. Still think you’re up for smoking, Art?” Allister cocks his head at him.

Arthur makes to stand, but she is there- right in front of him.

So close.

Her smile, her sinister eyes merge into blackness.

* * *

Arthur awakes, his head pounding, hours later on his bed. It’s already dark outside- Patrick and Allister are probably at work. He shifts seeking a comfortable position that would help subside his wretched headache.

“You’re awake, _finally._ Patrick called thrice asking about you; it was actually getting quite annoying. What the hell were you on to pass out for this long, anyway?” Dylan speaks from the bunk above him. He continues with his train of thoughts once it’s clear his brother will not be gracing him with a response any time soon, “Mum’s taking double shifts. Fancy going out for dinner?”

“Can we just order something?”

“Pizza?”

“Sounds good.” Arthur can already picture it. He’s ravenous and cannot wait to ingest something. “Dylan?”

His brother hums at him in response.

“Why have I never met nana?”

“Heard about your little accident with the ashes, Yikes. Just so you know, if dad was still here, you would be so dead. We would’ve probably had her ashes replaced by yours, mate.” After a minute passes, Dylan gets down from the top bunk and fixes him with a steady gaze. “I don’t think it had anything to do with you. So, don’t give it much thought, ok?” He sighs, breaking eye-contact. “Let’s get out of this room; it’s getting quite stuffy in here.”

“What do you mean ‘nothing to do with me’?” Arthur scrambles out of bed, following his brother into the hallway.

“Don’t know much about it. Dad didn’t really get along with her at all, and they completely broke things off with each other once you were born. Dad didn’t want anything to do with her after that major falling-out, so she wasn’t allowed to see you. You know how he gets when he sets his mind on something.” Dylan speaks to him as he strides down the stairs. He adds after giving it some thought, “I think he regretted not speaking to her when she died. That’s probably why we moved and…you know.”

“That’s stupid. Why couldn’t they just make up?”

Dylan starts to dial Pizza Hut’s number. “I don’t know, Arthur, but I do know that I’m ready to stop talking about this depressing shit.” He spits out before the other line picks up.

* * *

“You’re late,” Francis leans back and addresses Arthur once he has walked over to where he’s seated at Starbucks.

Arthur leans in to kiss him in greeting. “Had to wait for them to go to work.” He grunts before taking a seat opposite his boyfriend.

It has been difficult to get a hold of Arthur lately; he’s always tired and not up for meeting up. Up until recently, Arthur has never rejected a single invitation from him.

Arthur’s time was always his if he asked for it.

Francis isn’t used to not being his number one priority; hence, he has been more irritable with his parents, friends and everyone else in general. For once in his life, he doesn’t feel as ready for the upcoming change ahead of him. He is not as excited as he should be. He’s bored with school and he absolutely does not feel like humouring anyone. The task of getting to know people seems suddenly redundant for some reason. He is still delighted over the prospect of living in Paris again; however, losing this much interest in something he had planned for years is increasingly dulling down his mood.

“What did you do this time for them to give you trouble?” Francis asks out of habit. At the beginning of their relationship, he used to feint interest without caring much for an answer.

But now- it’s different. It’s genuine. 

Arthur acts offended. “Absolutely nothing. I’m being falsely mistreated.” He crosses his hands over the table and smirks, “Well, there is something. You just have to get me out of my clothes to see it.”

“My my, you can’t possibly expect me to stay here whilst knowing this, mon chou!”

* * *

He got a new tattoo across his thigh; some sort of a cage with aggressive-looking snakes twisting around it. It’s quite a big piece. Francis can appreciate the details and the shading is done pretty well, but he just doesn’t like it. Why is his beautiful boyfriend tainting his body with this crap, if he dares say?

He did not make the mistake of voicing his opinion as Arthur would probably get another piece of this sort to spite him. He learned this about him after many trials and errors- Arthur turned out to be quite the complicated character. Nothing like what he has anticipated when his eyes first landed on him.

“You don’t like it, do you?” Arthur smiles up at him.

Francis pulls at Arthur’s waist to close the distance between their bodies. “I’m not a big fan of tattoos in general. But, mon amor, you make everything work.” He nuzzles the side of his face. “Why did you choose the art piece, if I may ask?”

“It’s something I saw in one of my dreams.” Arthur’s voice sounds hoarse. Francis regrets having sex with him so early in the night. He had already drained a thick portion of his energy now, and knowing Arthur, he would properly fall asleep or leave soon.

“What happened?” Francis prompts him to keep him from drowsing off.

Arthur faces him. “I was inside a prison cell. It kept shrinking, and there was this woman who let loose of three black Cobras. One of them wrapped around my neck until I woke up.” He says this with an expression of complete serenity. Francis can’t decide if he is trying at a joke or if he’s too tired to summon another expression.

“Merde, Arthur, wouldn’t want to be in one of your dreams.” Arthur likes to watch a fair amount of horror movies. Francis imagines that his brain probably doesn’t process all those twisted concepts too well. “I dreamt of us in Paris. We were making love in the Eiffel Tower.”

“And were there people there?” asks Arthur in disgust.

“Why of course. We put on quite the show.” Francis winks at him.

“God, Francis, you are so gross.” Arthur pushes away at his face whilst failing to suppress a laugh. “Sounds more like a nightmare to me. That tops being bloody naked in public by a milestone.”

“People would pay to see us…”

“Stop. Stop, please.”

“It’s true.” Francis says quietly as Arthur squirms away from him.

A few minutes of quiet pass before Francis asks the question that has been grinding at the insides of his skull for over a week. “Have you asked your mother yet?”

“No.”

Francis gently turns Arthur’s face to his own. “I can convince her, mon lapin. Just let me have a word with her.” He adds when Arthur fails to respond, “I need to book our plane tickets soon.”

Arthur touches the side of Francis face tentatively. “My love, I think that this is where we part ways.”

“I can make you happy.” He is not letting him go. Arthur can’t just walk away now, after all the work they had put in this relationship. They both want this- Francis is certain.

“You’ll make yourself miserable in the process.”

Francis sighs. He sits up to address his boyfriend’s statement. “ _Arthur,_ you are not the judge of that. How many times do you want me to repeat myself? I love you and I want you. Stop getting lost inside your head.”

Arthur lifts himself up on his elbows. “And what happens when you stop?” He glares at him.

“I won’t.” Francis leans down to kiss him, but Arthur moves his face to the side before he’s able to meet his lips.

“I don’t believe that.”

What the hell is his problem? What would others give to be in his position right now? Francis is giving him everything; why can’t he see that? His father thinks him a fool for falling for someone like Arthur. The funny thing is, both of them believed it was easier to make this sort of offer to someone exactly like him. So, how come he’s not jumping on his opportunity? 

Arthur sits up properly to face him. “Francis, I am making this decision _for you._ University is supposed to be the best time of your life. I’ll just get in the way, and sooner or later, you will resent me for it.”

“Tsk. You are really starting to get under my nerves, Arthur.” Francis smiles to suppress the spite burning inside him. “Stop using this excuse, would you? Let us for a minute pretend that what I am saying is correct, yes? Do you, Arthur, have a reason of your own for not wanting to come?”

Arthur responds after a pause, “I don’t want to be owned by you.”

“So, it is better to be owned by your brothers, yes? The people who _you_ constantly swear that they hate you. Isn’t it you who said that they want nothing to do with you?”

“Fuck off.” Arthur is vividly shocked. He wasn’t expecting an intolerant response.

“Arthur, you love me, and you practically begged for me to love you back. So, now that I actually do, you’re acting like a prideful ass…”

The sound of Arthur’s palm connecting to his cheek rings through the room. The site of the undesired contact burns. Francis runs the back of his fingers over the assaulted area before running his hand through his hair and fixing his boyfriend with his gaze.

“You’re such a wanker.” Arthur’s voice shakes. Francis can see that he’s fighting back tears.

Francis snorts. “Call me what you must, _Mon petit chou._ ” He means to be condescending. Francis lets Arthur get away with so much. However, once he’s upset, he can’t really hold himself back.

Arthur moves to get out of the bed, but Francis grasps his wrists to confine him to his spot. “Stay still while we’re talking, Arthur. I don’t feel like chasing you. Besides, it really is getting old.”

Arthur struggles against Francis’s hands. His attempts are so feeble, it makes Francis question if Arthur is upset at all. When did he become so weak?

Francis takes in his expression; Arthur looks exhausted, Francis can see that, even under his dark eye makeup. Francis notices how shaky Arthur’s breathing is, and in all of a sudden, he is swallowed up with guilt so mercilessly.

A tear runs down Arthur’s cheek before Francis has the chance to apologise. “Arthur, mon ange, I didn’t mean to upset you.” He releases Arthur’s wrist in favour of cupping his face and gently wiping away at his tears. “I’m so so sorry. Please stop, I hate to see you cry.”

Francis kisses his forehead before engulfing him in a tight embrace. He kisses at Arthur’s neck whispering sweet nothings.

Arthur is limp in his hold; he doesn’t hug him back. He pulls away from him politely. “It’s fine, Francis.” He starts to put on his clothes.

Francis gives him space. “I really am sorry, Arthur. You know that, yes?”

“Yes.” Arthur smiles at him. His broken voice, his broken smile pains Francis in unexpected ways. Streaks of black decorate Arthur’s face; from the bottom of his eyes right till his chin. Francis wants to hold him in his arms, he wants to make things better; however, he knows that it’s too late for that- Arthur has completely shut down. He has to wait until tomorrow morning to get anything out of him now.

Francis messed up.

“Can I drive you home?”

“Ok.”

Arthur doesn’t say a word to him as they make their way out of the mansion. He doesn’t thank him for opening the passenger door for him. He doesn’t utter a word during their short journey. Francis turns on the stereo allowing music to eat away at the silence between them. Once Francis parks his white Lamborghini outside Arthur’s house, he unbuckles his seatbelt to hold Arthur’s face properly. He kisses him with an open mouth; Arthur lets him.

“Bonne nuit, mon amor.” Francis says after pulling away.

“Goodbye, Francis.” Arthur responds with a scratchy voice before opening the door to leave. He walks all the way to the front door without looking back.

Francis turns the volume of his car so high; so that he can drown out what his brain is unforgivingly declaring to him.

This is the last goodbye.


	9. Epilogue

The dreams never stopped. The woman, who he discovers to be his nana, fails to appear the more time passes. If it wasn’t her, it was something else- for better or worse.

After a rather severe episode of self-harm, Arthur was diagnosed with one or two of the following; insomnia, bi-polar, borderline personality disorder, depression, anxiety or schizophrenia from four different medical professionals. Each psychiatrist requested a follow-up appointment in quest of finalising the diagnosis and prescribing medications.

Arthur thought it was rubbish, and surprisingly so, his brothers shared his opinion. They did not take the presenting opportunity to deem him crazy. Arthur, if anything, is really grateful for that. His father has constantly drilled inside their heads that this mental health bollocks is for the weak- Arthur guesses that their views on these matters is one of the things that none of them could escape inheriting from him.

He continues to struggle with sleep as the years pass. It has become something that induces stress rather than comfort. He began to resent everyone who doesn’t have a problem with sleeping. He is unable to abandon or fix his sentence- for he is doomed to hurt everyday wither he resisted or confirmed to the clutches of sleep. 

Arthur graduated high-school with exceptional marks, surprising each member of his family. He then enrolled in community college to study literature alongside chemical engineering. Once Arthur showed interest in perusing higher education, his family didn’t hesitate to support him. All three of his brothers and their mum have collectively paid his fees without the slightest hint of objection; in quite the contrary, they have rigorously refused for him to work a part-time job to help out with the bills.

They continuously praised him for attempting university which was the complete opposite of what Arthur was used to. They appeared to be proud of him.

It was most unfamiliar for Arthur to take in.

Francis, his first love, has moved to Paris as planned. Arthur did not accompany him. He knew it in his heart that it was the right choice.

However, that did not serve to make it any less difficult. Heartbreak felt like a thousand stabbings through the heart. Whatever joys he scavenged from his dim share of this existence withered away the moment Francis boarded on that dreadful plane. Arthur couldn’t even find it in himself to give him a proper goodbye. The last Francis saw of him was weak and pathetic. The last mental image Francis has of him was of an ungraceful breakdown.

Arthur has left it at that.

He had forced himself to ignore every call, every text. He couldn’t go see him again, for he knows that he would have been too weak to reject him again. Arthur told his brothers that they broke up that night. To say that his brothers were happy to hear the news, is an utter understatement.

Telling them has made their breakup final. It was the end of all the loud arguments with his brothers to try and protect his relationship, the end of him sneaking out to meet up with him, the end of skipping school and of putting everything on hold.

Arthur never came to think of America as a home. England was his home as a child- it has come to be something of a distant memory as he got older. He never truly felt like he was ever home again. However, he came to realise that his family, in their own way, have always cared for him. He failed to see that before university; he failed to see how much they had sacrificed for him to be able to pursue the things he wanted.

And god, he has always wanted so much. More than the three of them combined.

Arthur has learned to love his father in death. The guilt, the mourning- it never fully goes away. However, he is now able to appreciate how difficult his father’s life must have been. He still can’t bring himself to fully forgive him for all that he has inflicted on him, but he can at least understand where it came from. His father didn’t know any better; Arthur supposes that there is no better excuse.

During university, he started a metal band. He was the lead singer as well as a supporting guitarist. Screaming on stage ignited his senses.

The louder he screamed, the lighter he felt.

It was his new high, it has replaced cutting. Arthur was allowed to be creative and shout out whatever he fucking wanted on stage. He wrote songs and coordinated whatever tone that played out inside his head into real life.

Arthur has unintentionally connected with his band-mates along the way, and having actual friends is a treasure that Arthur finally unlocked at nineteen. Music has kept him alive, it made him feel electric. He has poured so much of his energy in his band, Bleeding Raven, and just when they were able to sign their first record deal out of mere good luck, Arthur was diagnosed with chronic laryngitis. He hid it from his friends at first, but soon it was too painful for him to even speak.

Arthur was forced to give up singing permanently. His band has lost a major opportunity to actually get any resemblance of recognition. Bleeding Raven broke off a month after Arthur left them, and of course, he couldn’t help but to blame himself. Patrick certainly blamed him for having the condition- he got so upset with him over it that it was the only thing he ever spoke of for months, and in Arthur’s household, speaking was only seconds away from a bloody screaming match.

In some way, Arthur shattered his friends’ dreams. It was unintentional, but that doesn’t serve to change the outcome. Arthur didn’t properly care for his voice, because he could not place that much value in himself.

He never could view himself as worthy.

Having chronic laryngitis served to teach him a lesson- even though his body is his own, hurting himself hurts others. What he does to himself does actually matter.

So now, every time Arthur gets in an argument, his voice starts to break, and he sounds so pathetic it makes him want to weep. This is his new reality. He sees the hesitation pass his brothers’ eyes as it happens, their demeanor shifts and they treat him like he’s fragile whenever his voice strains.

What kills Arthur the most is that he is the one who has done this to himself. Not only did he rob himself from singing, he also robbed himself from doing anything that puts the slightest bit of strain on his voice. In addition to all this unfair bullshit that he has to deal with now, there is the crippling fear that engulfs him every morning- the possibility of him losing his voice forever if he strains his vocal cords more than he has already.

He tries to pick up drumming as an alternative, a distraction to what he has lost, but being in the proximity of instruments gnaws at him and so he drops it. He starts to write to fill his time. By the time he graduates, he has a complete novel stored up in his laptop. Dylan insists that he should self-publish it on Amazon.

Arthur gives Dylan all the credit to what he has now. He actually believed in him; he saw in him what he couldn’t see in himself. Arthur got signed with an agency, and is currently working on his ongoing best-selling series, Her.

Arthur is grateful for the new found financial stability; he is relieved he can pay his family back for what they have invested in him. He couldn’t truly feel how debilitating financial concerns are until he didn’t have them. He didn’t know that his lungs could expand as far as they do now.

The opportunity to write did not just levitate his life in terms of money. With every page Arthur puts out in the world, his brain is able to decelerate in its overactivity. With each book he publishes, Arthur feels himself let go of things that clawed at him for years.

The more he writes, the less haunted he feels.

He doesn’t fully make peace with sleep, but his situation beholds a remarkable improvement. His sleep-paralysis episodes decrease exponentially. He still sleeps either too little or too much, but he’ll take that over the constant feeling of suffocation that comes hand-in-hand with sleep-paralysis. He still gets the occasional illusions of spots, spiders or sometimes people- he uses it as his indicator to take a damn break from whatever he’s doing and to just rest. He still hears auditory hallucinations sometimes, they have evolved into whispers that tell him how to spend his day, a weeping woman or a crying baby. It overwhelms him whenever they concur with loud surroundings so he prefers to spend his time where it’s quiet. He puts an effort to avoid blatant places. 

Arthur doesn’t know if he’s happy.

He mistook that word for many different things throughout his life. Arthur definitely knows that he is grateful for all that’s happened in his life, for the good and the bad. If his life were to play out differently, he probably would not have prioritized his peace of mind as much as he does now. He seeks to find peace with even those who hurt him, for the more he clings to his hurt, the more he suffocates.

The more Arthur lets go, the more he is able to breathe. 

* * *

Francis is late.

He has a meeting in less than thirty minutes and still he hasn’t left his apartment. Who knew being in charge of a company would be this demanding? He almost wants to resign; if only it wouldn’t disappoint his parents.

His parents gave him everything. They couldn’t of have done a better job at bringing him up, Francis concludes easily. The least he could do to repay them is to run their life-long business- he supposes that’s what makes most sense. Still, it doesn’t mean that he has to do everything so perfectly, does it?

He stops by a coffee shop to get his morning fix of coffee. He’s already late so what’s the harm?

As Francis waits for his caramel macchiato, he spots the familiar cursives of his name across someone’s pale neck.

It’s Arthur.

He’s sitting at a corner table reading a book. There is a steaming mug of what Francis guesses is earl grey, or it could be English breakfast black tea? It’s been seven years since he has last seen him, and still he looks as gorgeous as ever. His ash-blond hair takes Francis back to when he first met Arthur, before he got into hair dies. How has he forgotten how beautiful his natural shade is? The morning sun illuminates his beautiful green eyes in a manner Francis absolutely cannot resist. He gazes at the piece of literature between his hands so intently, his peacefulness elevates Francis’s mood so unexpectantly.

He will play his cards right this time. It’ll all fall into place. He won’t hurt Arthur this time.

It seems Francis will not be attending the meeting after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case the connections throughout the story are unclear:  
> -Arthur is named after his uncle(who died in the unfortunate car crash), his father was never able to forgive his own mother for her reaction to the crash as it proved to him that she played favourites.  
> -Thomas was especially hard on Arthur because he reminded him of his mother and dead brother.  
> -The grandmother so desperately tried to see Arthur in order to seek closure to what happened to her own son.  
> -Their grandmother was subjected to tracheotomy before cancer took her out-hence the dreadful hole in her neck that appears when she haunted Arthur.


End file.
